Chapter 2
The outside air hit my bare shoulders and made me shiver. The Whitmore doorman didn't ask if I needed a car. He just stepped aside and kept his eyes forward like he'd been trained to do when guests cried in gowns. The sidewalk was damp from an earlier rain and my suitcase sprayed a fine mist behind it as I pulled. Behind the glass, my husband hadn't moved.
I made it to the curb before my phone started buzzing. I stood under the awning with the suitcase handle still in my left hand and my little silver bag banging against my hip. A black Escalade eased forward, then passed when I didn't raise a hand. The street smelled like wet concrete and exhaust. My toes were cold in my strappy heels.
The first buzz was my sister. Then a Slack notification. Then my husband calling. I didn't answer any of them. I ordered a car on the app with my thumb shaking so much I mistyped the address twice. The app said three minutes. I kept staring at the revolving doors. He was still there, a dark shape behind the gold, hands now at his sides, watching. He didn't come after me. That was new.
When the Toyota Camry pulled up, the driver, a middle-aged man with a Yankees cap, got out and looked at the suitcase, then at my dress. He didn't comment. He lifted the suitcase into the trunk like it weighed nothing and opened the back door for me. I slid in and the leather seat was cold against the back of my legs.
"You okay, miss?" he asked.
I nodded. "Downtown. The Hampton on Fifth, please."
He pulled away and the Whitmore lights shrank in the side mirror. Only then did I let go of the handle. My palm had a red indent from the plastic. I finally looked at my phone.
Slack showed 47 new messages in #general. My post was still at the top: "To clarify for anyone who saw my husband at tonight's gala with Jasmine - this is not a misunderstanding. I won't be deleting this." Below it, replies stacked. Someone from accounting had written "Claire, are you safe?" Someone else had DM'd "Take this down before HR sees." My husband had texted four times. The last one said "You don't want to do this at work. Please."
Then an email preview slid down from the top of the screen. Subject: Request for Meeting - HR - Tomorrow 9am. From [email protected]. I felt my stomach drop the way it had when the suitcase wheels caught on the marble. I read it twice. It was polite, formal, and it CC'd our general counsel.
The driver glanced in the mirror. "You got luggage and evening wear. Long night?"
May you like
"Long night," I said. I turned the phone face-down on my thigh and watched Fifth Street blur past. The tears had stopped but my cheeks were tight with dried salt. At a red light, I checked the side mirror again. No one followed. At the Hampton, I paid, tipped, and pulled the suitcase up the ramp myself. The lobby was smaller, bright with fluorescent light, no chandeliers. The clerk didn't look twice.
In the room on the fourth floor, I sat on the edge of the bed in the gown and opened the suitcase. It was half-packed, clothes folded fast from the closet at home that morning. On top lay the printed dinner program from the gala with my husband's name circled as a table host. I moved it aside and left my phone on Do Not Disturb except for the HR email. I didn't delete the post. I plugged the phone in to charge and stared at the ceiling until the air conditioner clicked on.
